[Police were called to a New Jersey school after a student accused another student of racism for calling brownies brownies. In defense of the police no one was arrested]

Brownies are sweet, tasty and brown,
but New Jersey’s schools hear this with a frown.
Color’s off color, don’t you know--
mention it, and the Thought Police
will have you in tow.

Blondies are sweet and a bit greasy--
a tasty snack, not a girl who’s easy.
But better call them cake, or you’ll be dissed
as someone who is completely ***-ist.

Anything you say can and will be held against you--
mot just by the cops, but by those you thought you knew.
It’s the days of Stalin, or “1984” from Orwell;
better watch what you say; they might be listening in the stairwell.

Once we all worshipped the First Amendment.
Now "politically correct" has gone beyond heavy-handed.
Use only approved phrases, or outcast will be your fate--
Political Correctness  destroyed a country once great.

I’ve a soft spot for you;
you press my tender button.
My heart’s a big furry teddy bear
with arms wide open.
I want to ruffle up your hair--what’s left of it.
Walk over here— my lap’s for you to sit.
Wait, you’re too heavy— I forget that you’re a man.
Perhaps I'll sit on top of you—
that's a better plan.
I’ve bought you dark chocolates-- treats for my sweet boy.
You’ve brought me red wine-- when I’m drunk, I am your toy.
Playtime’s fun; we can make or break the rules--
we’ll play House; we’ll play School.
We'll play all through our nap time, until the coffee's brewed.
We'll add some sprigs of wild thyme to our diabetic food.

I sat down in the grass
With my headphones on
And listened
As the wind awakened from sleep
And rushed to play in the leaves
Turning the trees into
An orchestra of chimes
I heard the early birds
Up with the dawn
Join together in harmonious song
I heard flutters of feathered wings
And the song the cricket sings
Then I realized that during this concert
Of this brand new day
On my iPad I had yet to hit play

The rose is a rose,
And was always a rose.
But the theory now goes
That the apple’s a rose,
And the pear is, and so’s
The plum, I suppose.
The dear only knows
What will next prove a rose.
You, of course, are a rose—
But were always a rose.

Please do not Leave Facebook, my friend,
These storms will soon subside.
ReMOANERS will get used to “Britain Out”.
They’ll grow tired of making you feel
A *****
For voting to jump the sinking Euro ship.

Don’t leave Facebook
For Google will crash,
Bebo and Myspace will return
And the BitPound will plummet.
Latin will become the default internet language
As hackers rule the web.

Be afraid, very afraid.
The consequences of Leaving would be dire.
But if you Stay here
In the ***** of the Facebook Family
You will be safe and secure
And eligible to claim
Your complimentary cuddly toy.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\6\2016.

From the patriotic song--verses 4 and 5, followed by three of my own verses:

   * Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame:
    All their attempts to bend thee down,
    Will but arouse thy generous flame;
    But work their woe, and thy renown.

    "Rule, Britannia! rule the waves:
    "Britons never will be slaves."

    To thee belongs the rural reign;
    Thy cities shall with commerce shine:
    All thine shall be the subject main,
    And every shore it circles thine.

    "Rule, Britannia! rule the waves:
    "Britons never will be slaves." *

When the international banks decree
that commerce belongs to them, not thee,
thou wilt arise and set things straight
and take back thy rightful fate.

When Brussels, and Germany insist
that immigrants from every shore
should find a home inside your door
(despite the people's cry--"No more!)
you quietly vote to resist.

What fire will flame from Britain's spark?
The division has been now made stark:
On one side, the elite's intent--
the other way, the people went.